Super Epic - Super Pacific Road Trip - Day Two: You Smoke Weed, Bro?

This is a longer one, but I think you'll find it worth the read.

Yesterday morning I woke to a fog horn from a distant boat, barely audible over the waves breaking along the cliffs beneath our room. The sun wasn't quite up, so I stoked the fire while waiting for the coffee to brew.

As the sun rose over the hills behind us, the day's first meeting went great (Zoom is the best). And then, about an hour later, shit went sideways, and it would be midnight before we crawled into bed, having only seen the redwoods from our view in the tow truck.

Let's get the minor problem out of the way first: I needed some medicine. Getting it turned out to be a fiasco, but there are worse things than spending two hours in Fort Bragg, CA waiting on a pharmacist who keeps telling me it'll be ready in about ten minutes.

Glass Beach, right there in town, is fabulous. And we found a pretty damn good coffee shop.

Now running way behind, we are hauling ass up 101. Outside of Redway, near the top of a long incline, the truck's tachometer redlines, and the AT temp light comes on.

I pulled over to the shoulder, almost as wide as my truck, and noticed the distinct smell of burning transmission fluid. Which made sense, given the wispy streams of smoke visible from the passenger window.

Well, shit.

I called my lifeline, the boys back home, because, like the rest of the day, I had only one bar and figured my best chance of getting anyone was while I was at the top of the hill.

"Here's where I am, and I'm probably gonna need some help."

With no room on the narrow shoulder and cars swerving by at 70 mph, there wasn't much I could do from this spot, but shortly, the highway patrol arrived. The young trooper, half my age and probably fresh out of the academy, hit his lights and followed me close as I coasted down the hill and to the next exit.

"I'm not telling you to run the stop sign, but if nobody is coming, run the stop sign and cut left. It'll be much nicer in the shade of the overpass."

He was right about that, it was much cooler, but there was no signal under the bridge. Thankfully, he was able to call for a tow from his radio. But it being 5:00 on the Friday of a holiday weekend, they all said it would be the following day before they could get to us.

"Good luck, bud. Sorry about the cell reception here; it's bad. But I wouldn't walk up that hill you mentioned to see if it's any better. There's a weed farm up there, and they probably wouldn't take too kindly, if you know what I mean."

"Welcome to Humbolt County," I thought as I pulled on the Tyvek suit I carry in my toolbox for situations like this and slid under the truck.

Now, if I sound calm here, I'm not.

Not by a long shot, even though I'm pretending to be for Julia's benefit. I'm pushing a heavy seven on the relaxation-panic scale of 1-10 and not thinking very clearly.

Thankfully, with the help of a few messages I could get through, the boys kept me on track, and I found that a hose clamp on the transmission cooler hose had failed.

Bam!

Easy repair. Drop the front skid plate, put the hose back on, and you're good to go if you have a couple of gallons of fluid.

But I did not have a couple of gallons of fluid.

And at 4:00 on Friday in Redway, California, my chances of getting any were slim. The closest town is another hour north.

At about that time, a white truck pulls up.

"Y'all alright?"

"We'd be a whole lot better if you told me you had a couple of gallons of transmission fluid in the back of your truck!"

"Jump in; we'll run up to the road. There's a gas station about two miles from here."

I wasn't too keen on leaving Julia, but she was armed, and I figured I'd be right back. Now I'm on a back road, even further in the middle of nowhere, wondering if this guy wants to help or if he plans to chop me into little pieces and put me in the freezer."

"You look stressed, man. You smoke weed?"

"Uh, I used to. Not so much anymore, though."

"Cause I got some if you want."

"No thanks. I appreciate it, but I'm good."

"Nah, here, take some."

The guy opens his console, reaches inside, and hands me a very large, very beautiful marijuana bud.

"Put that in your pocket."

"Um, OK. Cool, thanks!"

"Here, take some more."

Now he hands me four more buds, and I'm like, "What in the hell is going on here?"

But since I'm still wondering if I'm about to be treated like Ned Beatty in Deliverance, I'm not asking any questions.

At the gas station, the only one in this podunk area, they only had domestic transmission fluid. I reckon I looked even more stressed because he had EVEN MORE WEED sitting out when I got back in the truck.

"Take this, man; it's a different kind. It'll relax you later."

I put it in my other shirt pocket and silently prayed that we were heading back to the truck and not his kill room.

My prayer must have been heard because he did drop me off. "I'll be back in a few minutes," he said and headed off toward the hill that, two hours earlier, the trooper had cautioned me against walking up.

Julia's sitting on the tailgate, and I opened the kitchen drawer and pulled out some Ziplocs. Into the first, I emptied about a half ounce of pot from my left shirt pocket.

"Baby! What the hell? Where did you get that?"

I pulled the rest of the buds from the other pocket, crammed them in the second Ziploc, and stashed both in the drawer.

"Remember the pot farm that the trooper warned us about? Well, the guy in the truck was the farmer!"

When the trooper mentioned the farm earlier, I had envisioned the redneck, hillbilly pot farms in North Carolina. The illegal kind up in the hills where if you stumble across them while you're backpacking, the farmers shoot you and feed you to the pigs.

But here in Humbolt, it's legal! And the farmers are wonderful people who are happy to help a stranger. A few minutes later, he returned from the hill with a quart and a half of the correct transmission fluid!

We still weren't out of the weeds, though (Figuratively, that is. But also, thanks to the farmer, also now literally.)

With the hose having come off, a quart and a half wouldn't begin to get us back on the road. But, no longer worried about walking up the hill, I had enough signal to call a tow truck and get us up the road to Fortuna, CA.

I walked into the OReily's at 8:50 PM and picked up what I needed to finish the repair, including a shiny new hose clamp. It took six more quarts to top her off, and 45 minutes later, Julia and I were at a brewery eating cheeseburgers and remembering the crashing waves and fire from the morning that now seemed like days ago.

It had been about eight hours since the hose blew. By the time we got to our Airbnb and showered, it was way past my bedtime. But the bed was comfy, and I was asleep almost before my head hit the pillow.

Now it's another beautiful day in Humbolt County, and as quick as Julia gets up, we're finally off to see the giant redwoods.

The only question is, what do I do with all this weed?